


Wriggling Gifts

by Aewin



Series: The Gift that Keeps on Giving [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: First Time, M/M, Mutual Penetration, Psionic Sex, Psionics, Quadrant Confusion, Xeno, slight breathplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-12
Updated: 2013-06-12
Packaged: 2017-12-14 18:23:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/839937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aewin/pseuds/Aewin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sollux has two wriggling gifts for Karkat. The first is a traditional Wriggling Day present, complete with wrapping and bow.<br/>The second one wriggles in an <i>entirely</i> different manner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wriggling Gifts

**Author's Note:**

> Happy actual Wriggling Day, KK.

Today is your wriggling day, and you have absolutely no fucking intention of reminding anyone. Hell, you might be the only person who knows, other than Crabdad—who you’ve sent away for the day—and you intend to keep it that way. You’ve already spent a good few hours lamenting your insufficiencies, and you’re certain you’ve covered every possible negative thing about yourself, so you’re going to spend the rest of the day completely alone, basking in the irrepressible glory of “In Which Two Jadebloods Seduce A Seadweller Into Their Flushed Quadrants At The Same Time In Hopes Of Publicly Smirching His Reputation Yet Hilariously Find Themselves Engaged In A Kismesissitude With Each Other While Forgetting About The Prince And Causing His Quadrants To Be Empty When The Drones Come, Thus Rendering Their Failure To Discredit Him Irrelevant Due To A Messy Culling, And Also The Prince’s Moirail Becomes The Auspistice For The Pair But It Is Too Little, Too Late; Contains Two Failed Flushed Seductions, A Consummated Same-Caste Pailing Scene Suitable For Those Of Six Sweeps And Up, An Inefficient Moirail Who Ought To Be Culled, Four Quadrant Confusion References, A Single Violent Culling Suitable For Trolls Of Any Age, And A Parodic Interpretation Of A Seadweller That Should In No Way Be Interpreted As Even Remotely Realistic By Anyone Of Any Caste Whatsoever.”

It is _such_ a good movie.

Your seat is plush and comfortable, your grubcorn is hot and salty—with circular sweetened nut candies mixed in just the way you like it—and you’re just getting to the pailing scene when a _ping_ sounds on your Trollian. You ignore it. _Your_ wriggling day, remember? That makes this the one day of the sweep where you are allowed to not feel like shit for not indulging everybody else’s pointless theatrics.

The clothes have just come off of the jadebloods and your hand has _mysteriously_ started to rub teasing circles against your bulge sheath through your pants (seriously though, how did that happen? you weren’t planning on self-pailing when you picked this video) when another _ping_ sounds. You vaguely growl in the direction of your Husktop before unceremoniously shoving your hand into your underwear and lightly teasing your nook. _Your. Fucking. Day._ And if you want to spend it getting off to beautiful jades, nobody is going to fucking stop you.

That’s what you _think_ , until the _pings_ turn into a rapid-fire torrent of ceaseless sponge-clot-grating screeches. You would rather tear your bulge off than hear that sound, and yeah, okay, maybe wiping your hand off and answering your Trollian is a more reasonable idea than that. (You have really got to stop with the hyperbole, at least in your inner monologue—one of these days you might _actually_ tear your bulge off or gouge your clots out, and you are far too fucking pretty for that to happen even if you never find a concupiscent partner.)

You’re an arm-length away from your husktop when there’s an abrupt _crack_ that certainly doesn’t make you squeak like a wriggler at all, even if it is your wriggling day. A puff of skin-gray smoke billows directly into your face, and the acrid taste sends you into a coughing fit that lasts so long you almost don’t realize the husktop is actually aflame _,_ as in _on fire in your hive while you flail and convalesce like a 30-sweep-old rustblood,_ until it’s too late. It takes fifteen minutes and an entire anti-flame grubspray canister to put the thing out, and you’re still glaring at it suspiciously when you finally think to wonder what the fuck—and more importantly— _who_ the fuck.

It doesn’t take much wondering. You know only one person— _maybe_ two, if Zahhak has taken a sudden interest in viruses—that could have done this.

_Sollux fucking Captor._

The corner of your lip curls up in a grimace, and you decide that you’re not going to dignify this with a response. You will continue _Your. Fucking. Day._ by _Your. Fucking. Self._ No lispy, bipolar nerd is going to get the better of you today, and if he doesn’t get a reaction he might just leave you the fuck alone. So you stomp back over to your plush seating platform and rewind the movie back to the beginning of the pailing scene, determined to get yourself off in defiance of Sollux’s attempted derailment.

The fucking doorbell rings.

You scream.

The door nearly hits him in his derpy, smirking face when you slam it open, and there’s a fierce sense of disappointment at the failure to crush his scrawny stupid head. You’ll have to give it another go sometime and see if it’s as pleasant as it sounds.

“Hi KK, it’s nice to see you too, though you might want to move the hive a bit to the south if you want to actually hit me next time.” His fangs are bared in a silent laugh, and his voice is as grating and nasal as ever. There are _reasons_ you prefer to talk to this particular sack of bulges via text.

“The fuck do you want, Captor? You wouldn’t know it, given that you’re a useless, sagging bag of failures and regrets, but normal, _productive_ people have shit to do that doesn’t involve standing around outside looking like the physical incarnation of nerdiness.”

“I’m not standing, I’m floating. And you were watching a fucking movie, don’t even kid me. You left your viewport open, noob.”

Oh shit. Did he see—

“Anyways, I _am_ doing something. I brought you a wriggling day present, not that you’ll ever fucking admit to being grateful for it, sometimes I don’t even know why I bother.” He flaps his hand at you dismissively, and you notice a bulky shape floating behind him in the darkness.

“Oh, fuck no. How the hell—” you duck back into your hive, “—did you even know—” you start shoving your door shut, “—when my wriggling day was?”

Something stops the door before it can click shut, and you push against it with all of the force you can muster.

“You know that information’s in the Imperial database, right? Right there in the archives under Vantas, Karkat.”

Your feet slide against the tile of the entryway, and you dig in as solidly as you can. The muscles in your thighs and abdomen are starting to burn with effort, but Sollux keeps droning on. How does he still have air for talking?

“I actually just stumbled in there, security’s so lax you’d think they _wanted_ me to have the information.”

A tendril of red flicks around the edge of the door and stings you square in the nasal nub, disrupting your balance and knocking you on your ass as Sollux floats in on a cloud of asshole vapor. The package follows, looming ominously in the background.

“Wow, KK, you were really having some trouble with that door. Let me see if I can help out.” And he shuts the door with a wave of his hand. You hate cheating psionic shitfucks like him. Actually, mostly just him. He’s a special breed of annoying that was hatched for the sole purpose of annoying you. If you had an Ancestor, he must have done something _really_ awful to curse the bloodline with Captor.

You take a deep breath, intending to launch a relentless tirade the likes of which nerdboy has never seen before (seriously, trollnet flame forums have nothing on you when you get going), but the lisping psionic wonder wraps a red-blue necklace of sparks around your neck and starts to squeeze _._ What the _fuck?_

“Open the present, KK. I don’t feel like arguing, and I know you won’t do it unless I make you.”

Fuck, he knows you too well. You gurgle, and he rolls his eyes.

“I will stop choking you when you stop bitching, and you won’t stop bitching until you get it over with, so use those nook-stained little claws to open the goddamn gift or I swear I will leave you unconscious, your face adorned with writhing bulges of all hues that have been lovingly and painstakingly inscribed with permanent writing sticks. They will take a _perigee_ to wash off.”

The world is starting to go a bit floaty—is this what it’s like to be a psionic? no wonder he gets so many migraines—so you do your best to show your agreement, nodding and making frantic hand gestures toward the gift. He pushes it over to you, watching intently as you tear off the unnecessarily complicated shiny gift-topping twist and peel back the wriggler-patterned grubskin.

 _Fuck._ It’s a new husktop, and a damned nice one at that.

Sollux stops choking you, but you’re still feeling a bit lightheaded and surreal, and you can’t talk because you’re busy staring between Sollux and the present. The packaging advertises that it’s convertible from traditional grub power to bee power, and it can apparently coordinate up to _thirty-two fucking gigabees._ That alone is ridiculously nice, but it’s got a four-hive processor and a carefully-constructed network of tubes meant for the faster graphics bees to use as shortcuts. This is all self-contained, too—not exactly Sollux’s shithive maggots 256-gigabee server farm, but it’s _too much._

He’s wearing the shit-eating grin again, the one that you always want to slap off of his face so hard that Feferi can hear it in the darkest depths of the ocean.

So you do. You finally give in to the urge to slap him because it is _Your. Fucking. Day._ and you hate him so _fucking_ much—and for a brief moment it’s everything you ever dreamed, a satisfying, visceral release of all these stupid fucking _feelings_ for him that you’ve had bottled up for a sweep and a half. He flinches as your hand connects sharply with his cheek, and the stinging burn that you feel has to be _nothing_ compared with the blunt-force shock that you’re certain has to be bouncing around in his pan right now.

He snarls and lunges for you, catching you off guard. How the hell did he recover that quickly? Is this some sort of migraine-induced resistance to pain, or is he just a fucking masochist? Whatever it is, he’s already _on you_ , shoving you against the wall and sinking his teeth into your neck so hard that your eyes roll back in your head. You always thought that wasn’t a thing, but it is apparently totally a thing, and you are doing it. You might also melt against him a bit, but it’s clearly a carefully calculated escape tactic that has nothing at all to do with the way your bone bulge just twitched in its sheath.

“I have to admit, KK, I didn’t think you’d catch on so quickly,” he breathes into your ear, and when the hell did he get up there? The guy’s a fucking ninja.

“I. I don’t—” You can’t fucking string a thought together. Words are hard when he’s got his leg pressed between your thighs, and— _oh._ He wants this. He wants _you._ He must be on an upswing if he’s got the globes to straight-up _tell_ you like this.

“Why?” you finally manage to whine. The world is still spinning a bit because you haven’t gotten a decent chance to catch your breath.

“If you’re referring to _this—_ ” there’s a nervous tremor to his voice, but he presses his body to yours and grinds his knee against your nook. Fuck, you’re gonna embarrass yourself if he keeps this up. “—it’s because you've been blackflirting with me for a fucking sweep now and it gets me _so_ fucking hot, you have no idea, KK—” he pauses to lick a rough stripe along the bite he left, and it lights up the nerves in an entirely different way, a dull sort of pain from the pressure mingled with a sharper scrape as his tongue catches on the slightly ragged edges of the wound. Fuck, you must be bleeding, and he’s lapping it up like it doesn’t matter that you’re a fucking mutant. This is completely insane.

“—how many times I jerked it to you, thought about having you yield to me just like this…”

Oh, fuck that noise. Your eyes snap open and you shove him away. He staggers a bit but doesn’t fall, cushioning himself with his fucking cheater powers. “Wait one fucking minute, Sollux. If you think I’m just going to—and I quote— _yield to you_ , you’re stupider than I thought. And I already thought you were pretty fucking stupid.” You don’t, but he doesn’t have to know that. And wow, he jerked it to you, that’s pretty fucking hot.

“Ehehe, good. A kismesis that doesn’t fight back is boring as hell, KK, so it’s good to hear that you have a few romantic cells left in your freakishly dense thinkpan.”

“I am the most romantic troll you will ever fucking meet, and don’t you dare say otherwise. I was asking about the damn husktop, you mutated shitstain. Who’s the dense one now?” Oh fuck, he’s coming closer. Why do you even _want_ him to get closer, what the hell is wrong with you?

“Hmm.” Sollux presses you back against the wall, shoving his hands under your shirt and scraping his claws harshly up your sides. They don’t pierce, but they leave puffy lines behind that you just _know_ will swell up red before the night is over. “Well, I just thought that you might be a _little_ better at hacking if you had a machine that compiled your code faster than you can fucking write it.” The hands slip downward, and your breath comes shallowly again as they press against the waistband of your jeans. “You’d never give me a challenge on that old piece of shit, KK. Not that you will anyways, but consider it a personal investment. I’m the real gift anyways, ehehe.”

Your blood boils. You _hate_ that raspy, nasal snigger he’s always had going on, but right now it’s grinding on your nerves more than ever before. Fuck it, you _are_ going to be a challenge for him, you _will_ get better at hacking and you _will_ blow up his entire goddamn server array in a magnificent fucking firestorm that will be sung of in legend. Epics will be composed. Movies will be made. There will be a holiday named in your honor.

“Oh, that is _it,_ you chutewhiffing nubfondler, I am so sick of your shit.” He gives almost no resistance when you hook your leg around his calf and sweep. You try to follow him down gracefully to highlight your poise and control in battle, but you just end up falling on his chest with a thud that makes him _oof_ while you remember that you _have_ no poise and control in battle. You almost hit the wall, for fuck’s sake. But you get your hands planted firmly on either side of him before he wriggles free, and that puts you in the dominant position.

You’re actually kind of proud that you can hold your own against him, and you demonstrate your glee by leaning forward and biting at his lip so hard that it bleeds. He moans into your mouth, and _fuck_ that’s hot, and your lips are suddenly smashed together in a snarling, inexperienced kiss, too wet with blood and spit, hot and slick and intimate, and fuck, _fuck_ , you’re _breathing_ him, stealing the fucking air from his body, and you can’t fathom why the fuck you’ve never seen porn that highlights this because it’s the hottest thing you’ve ever even _heard_ of to do with your lover.

Fucking hell, Sollux is your _lover_ suddenly? What the hell, world?

A shiver runs through your nook when he thrusts up into your hips, and it morphs into a full-body shudder as your bulge twists out of its sheath and starts unceremoniously smearing genetic material all over your underwear. Sollux rolls you both over in your brief moment of weakness, and then he’s got you pinned in a textbook-perfect reversal. Your bloodpusher is pounding so hard that you can feel its beat where the two of you are touching. You’ve never had a fight like this before and it’s absolutely exhilarating, so much different than practicing alone in your respiteblock, and you’re about to try pushing him off—you’re stronger than him, you know you are—when Sollux’s psionics pin your hands against the ground and he does _that fucking smirk_ again.

“You lususfucking, _grubshitting_ cheating psionic drain on all of trollkind, this is foul play and you damn well know it. Give me a fair fucking chance.”

Sollux sits up, straddling you—and _oh,_ you can feel his bulge thrash against yours through the pants, and you’re not sure if the fabric will wear through or your bulge will rub itself raw first. Preferably neither. Preferably he cuts the shit and fucking _pails_ you sometime soon, because you’re already wound up from the damn movie and the unexpected news that your best hatefriend in the world has apparently wanted to pail you all sweep. Shit, you hope you’re still friends after this. And _fuck_ , he has to watch better porn than you or something, because he is inconceivably, spitefully good at touching every fucking inch of you he’s gotten his hands on.

“Come on, KK. Promise I won’t use them any other time if you don’t want me to, but I want to make you feel good for your wriggling day.”

“No psionic bondage, you kinky freaknub. Save it for the second hatedate. Or better yet, how about fucking _never_?”

“Fine, no bondage.” He sighs, holding up his hands in defeat, and the sparks at the periphery of your vision disappear. You’re free again. Well— _relatively_ free, given that he’s still on top of you, but you’re going to change that.

“God, you don’t have to sound so fucking dejecte—” A grid of hair-thin psionics shifts over your lower body, and you feel uncomfortably warm for about a second before he rolls off of you.

“What the fuck, Sollux?”

He snaps his fingers, and the tattered remains of your clothes fly off into some godforsaken corner of the block. Your bulge is so fucking lonely it’s trying to crawl off in search of a nook, and it’s fucking _embarrassing_ to be seen so obviously desperate, so you prepare to launch a counterattack.

And promptly fall back against the floor moaning, eyes fluttering shut, when your nook is spread open and roughly filled by something warm that’s got to be the size of your fucking _hand_. It’s almost more than you can take.

“Ohhh, _Sollux…”_

“Yes?” His voice comes from your side, and you open your eyes to see that yes, he’s standing there with his arms crossed, grinning smugly at you and proving that he’s still the same frustrating douchelord he always is. A frustrating, fully-clothed douchelord. Glancing down to see what the hell’s in your nook, you see nothing. Scratch that, you see your bulge waving in the air like it’s trying to send messages in troll fucking semaphore, but what else is new, right?

“You—ah, _ah_ , _fuck.”_ The rumbling buzz in your nook echoes upwards to the tip of your bulge, and it’s got you clenching and writhing so fast that you’ll probably get some sort of whiplash. “You fucking _liar_.”

He spreads his arms, shrugging in mock innocence. “Hey, you said no bondage, KK. This is not bondage, as I’m sure you’ll agree.” He pulls his shirt over his head as he talks, catching it on a horn and ripping it while he flails around trying to get it off. Not so fucking smooth after all. You laugh, and he flips you off before unbuttoning his jeans. Holy _crap_ he’s got some nice hips, perfect to grab and pull close to you and hnngh your pan may be shorting out a bit because he took his pants off and there. Are. _Two of them._

You might suddenly understand why he’s been insistently stretching you with psionics.

You might suddenly be afraid that you won’t be able to take him anyway.

But fuck if you’re not going to _try_.

“Fuck, Sollux. Get inside me right now or I’m going to jizz on your bees next time I’m at your hive.” The psionics retreat from your nook, and you whimper unintentionally. It’s just so _empty_ like this, he’s such a fucking nooktease.

“Do it and I cut your bulge off, KK. You don’t _need_ to have a complete set of genitals for me to be able to pail you.”

You cringe. “It was fucking metaphorical, now get the fuck over here before your talk of genital mutilation completely dries up my genetic material sacs.”

He chuckles and straddles you again, your bulges instinctively twisting together in a deathgrip that makes you both gasp. Leaning forward, he murmurs against your lips.

“Oh don’t worry, your sacs are going to be dry by the time I’m done with you anyways.”

Nnnghh, _fuck,_ that is hot, and you’re practically vibrating out of your skin with arousal but this is still _not enough_ , not quite what you want, so you shove him backwards a bit, wincing when his bulges tug too insistently at yours. His are average in size, but they overwhelm your shorter, thicker bulge in sheer volume, and god, you wish you could get a good look at his nook, but fucking it will most certainly suffice for now.

“So fucking impatient, KK.”

You arch up until the tip of your bulge presses against his seedflap, and he stops breathing for a second, long enough for you to shift into a better position and wrap your arms around him. Scratching at his lower back gets him to jerk his hips closer to you, putting him right where you want him. _Score._ The tip of one of his bulges starts wriggling into you, flexing and thrashing as your nook contracts and pulls him deeper. He sinks down on you with a stuttered _ah—nn—ahh_ that trails off into a blissful groan when you’re as far inside him as you can be, and the tip of his other bulge starts probing at your entrance. The _first_ one isn’t even all the way in yet, how the hell are you going to do this?

He looks down at you, doubt showing clearly. God, he’s hot even when he’s _not_ antagonizing you, all dichotomy and oddities and things you could never have with any other troll, and his freakish genitals are included as part of the package. Sollux Captor is all yours, and you do literally mean _all_ of him; you are going to stuff that other bulge in your nook if you have to make a deal with the Handmaid herself to do it.

“Do it,” you rasp, voice wavering despite your firm convictions on the matter. His hand braces the other bulge at your entrance, and he looks at you for confirmation.

“Do it _fast,_ ” you amend. It’s going to hurt no matter what you do, but you want this _so fucking much._

The tip wriggles in beside its twin and then he _slams_ his hips into you, driving the other bulge deep inside. There’s no chance to focus on the pain because suddenly _everything_ is on fire, _everything_ hurts. His teeth cut into your neck so easily that they might as well be perfectly-honed razors, painless and efficient, but he follows his bites up with painful rasps of his tongue against the damaged flesh, little licks that somehow resonate straight to your groin in arcs of pure, painful bliss. He did the same thing earlier, but it’s twice as amazing when it’s a distraction from the bulges that are buried inside of you and pressing painfully against your nook like the first one to split you in half wins a prize. Fuck it, you’re going to practice on your own until you can shove a fucking concupiscent toy up there with his bulges, just to piss him off.

He pushes himself up and scratches at your chest as he makes sinful little circles with his hips. It’s fun, at first, pricking him with your claws as a distraction from the pain, but as the ache in your nook eases you realize that he hasn’t scratched or bitten you in a while now. He’s not complaining, but you put your hands to better use by grabbing his hips and using the leverage to press deeper into him.

“Nn, KK, this—this is—” He’s lisping horribly, and he shakes his head, replacing whatever he was going to say with a breathy little moan.

He’s _desperate_ and it’s erotic as fuck watching him ride you and flush ever-deeper shades of gold as he falls apart. You’re getting off more on that desperation than on the actual physical contact, and even with the two of you still bulge-deep inside each other you’re already making plans for more of these encounters. God, if he actually listens to the “no psionics” rule, you could tie him up for hours and tease him until he begs, or force him to finally fucking eat something, or sit on him and ride him while he’s tied to a chair. You could make him piss himself, or cover him with your genetic material, or cuddle him until he thinks you’ve vacillated. The kinky possibilities are fucking endless, and you’re going to try them all once you get to the point where you’re not fumbling around figuring out basic things like how to fit him inside of you without resorting to forced insertion.

Not that you’re complaining. It’s intense enough as is, watching the slow _drip drip drip_ of yellow oozing from the gashes on his thighs—marks that _you_ put there to claim him as your own—and it’s exhilarating to twist your bulge up between his plump, swollen material sacs, knowing that _you’re_ the reason they’re full. And he’s just—he’s fucking _beautiful,_ okay, flushed and sweaty and quivering on top of you, gasping and moaning out your name, and your bloodpusher skips a beat at the realization that you’d accept him in _any_ quadrant, anything to be this close to him and be with him as he lives his shitty life with his shitty migraines and shitty voices and shitty luck. Not that you’re going to tell _him._

A low, drawn-out _chirr_ pulls you out of the land of "what if" and back to the land of "hello, you are currently being fucked, thank you for noticing."

At some point the two of you slowed down. Fuck if you know when, because it’s all sort of a blurry haze of pain and pleasure. You’re not fighting any more, but everything is still intense in a different way, languid and appreciative, more pity than hate in your actions. His bulges aren’t thrashing any more; instead, they’re twining together and stroking softly against your shame globes, making you shiver, and your thumbs are massaging circles into his thighs where you’ve gripped them for support.

Fuck. You’re flipping mid-pail, flirting with the flushed quadrant, and _he’s going along with it._

You reach up and pull his glasses off, setting them carefully to the side, and wow, you really don’t remember his eyes being this _vivid_. For once there are no dark circles, and there’s a faint glow emanating from them. Between the color and the lopsided smile, he looks the most _alive_ you have ever seen him.

“You’re staring, KK.” And then he reaches out a hand and smooshes your fucking face sideways into the floor. Way to kill the mood, Captor. At least it’s gentle, not really black, but _really_ , he can’t let you have even a moment of blissful adoration? Well _there’s_ why his life is so shitty, every time something good happens to him he pushes it away, what an apt fucking metaphor for the entire travesty that is his existence.

“Fuck you very much, asshole.” It comes out muffled against the floor as you glare at him sideways.

He lets out a laugh, a short incredulous sound you’ve heard _one fucking time_ in the entire duration of your friendship, and then lets go of your face and leans down into a kiss as he shifts and curls inside of you. It’s soft and slow and lingering, his forked tongue slipping into your mouth and curling gently around your own, tugging like he’s trying to pull you into him. His hips press flush against yours, but instead of coming to rest he tries to fuck deeper into you, as if insistence will let him pass right through the flimsy barriers of flesh that separate you—and maybe he _has,_ because there’s a light, crackling fizz of energy between you, running the length of your body and settling into your skin. It thrums in tandem with his rocking, an invisible energy stroking and squeezing and teasing every bit of you until you’re trying desperately not to shatter into a babbling, crying mess underneath Sollux because you are _almost there_ but you want it to be good for him too, and oh fuck, what if it takes him extra time to get off because he has two of them—

His mouth goes slack and he breathes a gentle puff of air into you as he trembles and releases with a shaky, nearly-silent _oh_ , his sacs throbbing around your bulge as he empties them into you. He’s not that far from you on the spectrum but it’s far enough that you can feel the flood of his warmth inside of you, and you bite your lip as you give in and follow him, quivering and pulsing and writhing into him in an overwhelming cascade of sensation and emotion and confusion. Fucking _finally._ You’re mouthing his name as you come down from the overstimulation, and he collapses onto you, breathing heavily against your neck and hugging you to him like he intends to stay there all sweep. The wetness against your neck could be tears or blood, and you’re not sure you want to know; casual assessment reveals that yes, there are a few tears trickling down your own face as well. Fuck, he really broke you.

The two of you stay there for a long time, holding each other close and returning to whatever can pass for normal after _that_ , because you forgot the pail and did you care? No you did not, and you still don’t, even with a sticky, wet stream of mingled material congealing in a cold puddle beneath you. This—whatever _this_ is—probably wouldn’t have happened if you’d used a clearly-delineated quadrant pail, but as far as you’re concerned pails can fuck right off where you and Sollux are concerned, because you’re not certain you could keep this in a single quadrant even if you _did_ take the risk of filling one together. Fuck, this is messed up. You hate him, and you pity the fuck out of him, and you want to keep him away from this cruel fucking world so it can’t change a _damn_ _thing_ about him because after this you can’t imagine him as anything other than _your_ multi-quadrant mess. Seeing him subjugated by the Empire would break your fucking heart.

He shifts subtly against you, nuzzling your neck.

“Hey, Sollux?”

“Nggh?” It’s a grunt, but you can decipher enough Captor to recognize it as acknowledgment. He must have been falling asleep.

“When’s _your_ wriggling day?”

“Not telling.”

You turn your head and nip at his neck.

“Seriously? You interrupt _mine_ to shove a quadrant at me and render me useless for the rest of the night, and I don’t get to know? Fucking _rude._ ”

“Mmm. I don’t really have one.” His fangs scrape subtly over your neck as he yawns, and you shiver.

“Everybody has one, numbnuts. Did you forget yours or something? Shame you didn’t look it up when you were stealing _my_ private information.”

He groans and props himself up above you.

“Ugh, I guess I have one, technically. But if you want to get _really_ technical, I have two.” He sighs at your confused expression. “I crawled out of the caves and got like halfway through designing a hive before I apparently decided the world sucked and crawled back in.”

He’s so ridiculously out of control with his whole two thing that you _have_ to laugh, quite literally in his face. His eyes narrow, but it doesn't seem like he's ready to flip back entirely—and thank fuck for that, because you don't have the energy to deal with a kismesis right now.

“So? Tell me the dates, twofold terror. I want to do something for you. Because _this_?” You gesture broadly at the wreckage of yourselves and your clothing. “This was nice _._ ”

You think Sollux rolled his eyes, but you can’t be sure. The ethereal glow has faded, leaving them an uninterpretable mess once again.

“Look, even I don’t know the first one, but I’ll make you a deal. If you can top me tomorrow—no psionics, on my honor as a hacker—I’ll tell you the one I _do_ know.”

_Hell yes._ As far as you're concerned, you win either way.


End file.
